Amitié Brisée
by Silver Snowblossom
Summary: "Nations were defined by their people. France had known this. He just hadn't realized the full implications of what that meant until he stood, Paris bleeding red around him and the roar of Nazi German airplanes in the air, with Prussia's gun pointed at his heart." Set during WWII.


**A/N: I'm not sure how well-received this will be, considering it's my first serious story in the Hetalia fandom even if it is a one-shot (though, ****do drabbles count?)****. **

**I have** **been reading on this fandom for quite a while, though. I finally decided to create an account this year and maybe do a little writing of my own.**

**This fic is set in World War II, during the 6-week Battle of France, which ended with a French surrender and German occupation in northern France. Anyway, here's a summary for those reading on the mobile version:**

"_Nations were defined by their people. France had known this. He just hadn't realized the full implications of what that meant until he stood, Paris bleeding red around him and the roar of Nazi German airplanes in the air, with Prussia's gun pointed at his heart." Set during WWII._

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**Amitié Brisée**

_(Broken Friendship)_

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"_The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained."_

— _Bilal Nasir Khan_

Nations were defined by their people. France had known this. He just hadn't realized the full implications of what that meant until he stood, Paris bleeding red around him and the roar of Nazi German airplanes in the air, with Prussia's gun pointed at his heart.

He was acutely aware of the feeling of betrayal rising within him, even over the thudding of his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he stared down his friend.

He had, of course, heard the rumors—of the concentration camps and Jews and Nazi regime, but… but he hadn't quite _believed_ them because he _knew_ his friend, knew what Prussia was like, and he knew that Prussia would never have allowed such a thing to occur. Even if he hadn't spoken to his friend for a while, he hadn't believed that Prussia would've changed.

Up until that moment, he hadn't seriously entertained the idea that the rumors might have been _true_.

And perhaps, in a way, he was right. _Prussia_ would never have let such a travesty happen to his people, but Nations were defined by their people, and this stranger wearing his friend's face would, under the power of his new government. Under the Nazi regime.

He had known, from the moment the Germans had invaded France, that he would lose (he had certainly lost enough times in wars before to know). The Germans had been smart enough to cut France off from the rest of the Allied Powers, so he knew no help would be forthcoming. The French and English troops had been pushed back all the way to the sea, and had been forced to escape lest they be wiped out—the news had been delivered via phone by a very stressed England, the island nation's exhaustion evident even over the phone, despite his attempts to keep it out of his voice. It was just too bad for him that France had known him too long for that to work. It worried him. If even _England_ was worried (and dare he say it, _scared_) about the situation…

And… it had been a while since he had seriously worried about building up his army, preferring more cultural pursuits like music and the culinary arts in more recent times, a decision which he sorely regretted now. But, really, how could he have prepared for a second world war? How could he have known to do so?

It didn't help that this time, the attack was different from what he was used to. There was no time for his army to mobilize, no time to react. Attack after attack left his people reeling and desperately scrambling to mobilize their defenses. _Bewegungskrieg_, the Germans called it. Blitzkrieg.

Six weeks, and the Germans were in the heart of Paris.

It was certainly effective, France had to admit. The results spoke for themselves; Paris was in disarray, and he knew there was no way the French would be able to defeat the invading Germans. France would fall, but he could only hope that America would finally come to his senses and help out with the war effort. Surely even _he_ could see that he couldn't remain neutral for long? He didn't quite understand what the younger nation was thinking. The United States would be dragged into the war one way or another; surely it would be better to enter on their own terms.

He should have realized, much sooner than he did, that Prussia had been heading the offense. The blitzkrieg shone like the rest of Prussia's military strategies. The other country, even before he had been Prussia and had been the Teutonic Knights, had always been militaristic; the battlefield had been where Prussia truly shone.

It was obvious, in hindsight. Who else would have been so successful? France didn't know why he felt the sharp sting of betrayal, painful and piercing in his heart; he should've expected this, should have anticipated it, really. Their countries had fought multiple times in the past—the Franco-Prussian war, for example, though he hated remembering those bitter times—and he knew Prussia loved his younger brother dearly despite their differences. Prussia had practically _raised_ Germany, after all. So of course Prussia would lend his strength to his younger brother and fight in this war; France would expect no less of him. So why was it different this time?

Perhaps, he thought, it was because throughout all those other wars there had been the unspoken fact that no matter what happened, their friendship would survive. (The Bad Touch Trio, the others had jokingly dubbed the three of them, but that name had stuck.) They would give their country their all, even if it meant they were on opposite sides, but even through bloody wars and military campaigns, France had known that Prussia was still his friend.

But this time was different. Never before had they truly tried to conquer the other's land; never had they actively _sought_ to humble and hurt the other nation. There had been invisible lines they dared not cross, the unspoken rule not to hurt the other more than necessary. Not like this time, where Prussia had invaded his land and would have, at the end of this day, taken Paris—his heart. (He could feel his people suffering. Their panic was his own, their fear his driving force.)

This time was different because he could find no trace of his friend in the soldier leveling a gun at his chest, hands perfectly steady. What the hell _happened_ to Prussia? France barely recognized the other nation, though outwardly, Prussia looked the same as ever: same gleaming red eyes, pale skin, and silver-white hair. He still wore a military uniform and carried a gun, but that was where the similarities ended (and even _that _was different, France thought; instead of his usual blue Prussian uniform, one he wore with pride, Prussia wore an SS uniform, the Nazi armband bared proudly and it was just so _wrong_).

Gone was the usual cocky demeanor and boisterous laughter; Prussia's entire demeanor was closed off, face cold and unreadable. The spark of mischief usually present in his eyes was gone, too; now, they were hard as flint, a hint of madness lurking underneath in their depths. It was like he was looking at a stranger, with just enough flashes of familiarity to be devastating.

Distantly, he heard the heavy thudding of boots and the screaming of his people, blanketed by the familiar sound of gunfire. (And oh, he hated that sound, knew it too well. He had taken pride in his military, once, but it had been a long, long time since he had been interested in the horrors of warfare.) He'd known the instant the Germans had entered Paris, mere minutes before, and had known he had lost. It was only a matter of time.

He had left communications office he'd been at, stepping out onto the street, a stone in the flood of panicked civilians streaming past him. He refused to cower before the advancing army; if he had to lose, he would do so with dignity.

He had found Prussia not even two minutes later. Or, perhaps, Prussia had found _him_.

"Prussia," he managed, mildly surprised that his voice did not shake. The gun did not move, still firmly trained at his chest, and France wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. Prussia had always liked swords better than guns; a coward's weapon, he called them.

"Surrender, France," Prussia said. He sounded nothing like himself, all the lightness usually present gone from his voice, leaving it flat and empty. And the way he said his name… France had never heard Prussia say his name like that before, coldly detached and lacking all emotion. Before, there had always been a teasing lilt to it, a precursor to whatever crazy scheme Prussia had cooked up this time.

France said nothing, searching, _desperately_, for a hint of familiarity in the white-haired nation's gaze. He found none.

France kept his breathing steady, tamping down the trickle of fear. Fear would not help him now, with this nation who was his friend and yet not at the same time. He was cautious, defenses raised in a way he had never quite done in his friend's presence before, because this time things were different. He wasn't facing his friend. He was facing Prussia, embodiment of the Nazi regime.

"Prussia," he tried again, hoping the other could hear the quiet pleading (_please, Gilbert, please_) in his voice. He searched for the words. What _could_ he say—do—to get his friend back? For all that he was lauded as the nation of love and honeyed words, they failed him now, fleeing in the face of this situation and leaving his mind blank.

France might as well have been talking to a wall, for all that Prussia reacted. "Surrender," the albino repeated. "These lands have been occupied in the name of the Führer, and are now German lands. You have lost. Surrender and spare your people further pain."

It was only centuries of fighting and war that kept him from flinching as more gunshots rang out, carrying with them the screams of his people. It was only centuries of experience that ensured his face remained calm, betraying none of the maelstrom of emotions swimming beneath. _Painfearhurtangerworrybetrayal_, his heart cried.

France had known that this was a very real possibility, knew that he would likely have to surrender. But being in this situation now… it didn't seem real, like some nightmare that he would soon wake up from where his friend _wasn't_ this cold stranger and his lands hadn't fallen.

It was the pain of his people that convinced him, in the end—and really, it wasn't a choice at all was it? He had only ever had one choice; there had only ever been one decision for him to make.

"I surrender," he said, voice steady and calm, belying none of the turmoil he felt. (Lesson number one: never show weakness to an enemy. _Gilbert_ had taught him that, long ago.) "Just, _please_, stop the fighting."

Prussia gave a curt nod, though his expression (flat, dead, cold, so unlike Gilbert) never changed. "Good. We will arrange to discuss the terms of the armistice later today."

France held in a bitter laugh. Discuss? What was there to discuss? All there was to it was that Germany would make demands and he would have no choice but to accept.

"Come," Prussia commanded, finally lowering his weapon, though France held no delusions of escaping. "You will be coming with me as a prisoner of Germany until negotiations are settled." Given no choice, France followed mechanically, through the blood-slicked streets of his once-beautiful city, now tainted red with blood.

He knew he had lost. Thoroughly.

His only spark of hope were the French troops evacuated from Dunkirk alongside the British Expeditionary Force. They, at least, would be free, even if their country wasn't. England would offer them a place to stay and mobilize, though he knew they would continue to fight for their country. It was fact he drew pride from, that allowed him to lay himself bare and surrender to the Germans.

France might have surrendered but his people weren't done yet. He may have lost, but he was far from defeated.

_And maybe, just maybe, when this was all over, Prussia—Gilbert, not this warped version of him—would be back again. _

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**A/N: I'm… not entirely certain I got France in-character. In canon, they only ever really show him as a goof or overly-dramatic, but I kind of doubt he'd be that way in such a serious situation. He **_**is**_ **centuries old after all, older than even England, so I find it hard to believe he would get lost in his emotions; in my mind, he's been a commander of an army. There's no way he doesn't know how to keep calm under stress. **

**And Prussia is purposefully out of character; I'm not sure if I explained it clearly, but basically, my headcanon was that since nations were influenced by their people, if many of their people share a certain mindset (i.e. Nazism) then the nation themself would be affected by that. I know there's really no evidence to support that, but it's still something I think would be interesting to explore. **

**Also, I put the title in French because the main character's France, but I'm not sure if that's a good idea. Do you think I should change it to just "broken friendship", it's meaning in English? **

**On a side note, this actually ended up being less angsty than I thought it'd be when I came up with this idea. I tried to make it angsty, I really did. But France was being extremely uncooperative. Instead of France falling apart from seeing Nazi!Prussia, he kind of wrote himself as hurt and worried, but still somehow calm. Oops? Sorry for those of you who were looking for some good angst. (And I just reread it, and the whole story is like paragraphs and paragraphs of France's internal speculation, with a tiny bit of Prussia and dialogue at the end… I guess that's what happens when you let a story write itself with no real plot in mind.)**

**Some historical context: for those who don't know (like me, before I had to research a little for this fic), basically, the Dunkirk Evacuation was when the French troops and British Expeditionary Force were trapped along the northern coast of France and the commander of the BEF decided to evacuate through the English Channel. In the end, 338,226 were evacuated through the port of Dunkirk, though the BEF were forced to abandon their tanks and equipment. **

**Please correct me if you notice any historical inaccuracies (I am in no way great at history; everything here is from what I looked up online). I know that the plan was actually devised by General Erich von Manstein, but well, you know. I figured I'd make it Prussia's instead. Oh wow, looks like I rambled on too long. Kudos to anyone who actually read through all that. :P**

**I'd love any constructive criticism, so please leave a review!**

**~Silver Snowblossom **


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